


Mudding

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Established Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but i'd appreciate it personally, maybe not all canadians, the loviest doviest of englands, you have to be this soft when dating a canadian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 17:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17750003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Arthur enjoys a finer point of Canadian culture.[Domestic MapleTea.]





	Mudding

**Author's Note:**

> I finally wrote MapleTea and it put me into a sugar coma :P

He didn’t even recognize it as English, the first time Matthew said it. Multiple contributing factors: Arthur had his head in the fridge while he negotiated with a six-pack of vanilla yogurt cups, the TV was blaring the insufferable commentary of a curling game, and—despite their being together for nearly three years—Matthew’s perpetually soft voice made deciphering his wants and wishes rather difficult. “Say again, love,” Arthur told him, at last snapping free his prize and closing the refrigerator door. “I’m a bit deaf.”

Here was where their friends would joke at his expense— _ouais, after all that punk music_ or _it’ll be your eyes next, old man_ —but Matthew’s gentle soul would never allow for such things, even in jest. With their friends, perhaps, but never with Arthur. Instead, he got a spoon from the drawer, shut it with his hip, and offered both the utensil and his smile with the same charming shyness.

“I asked,” he said barely louder than the previous attempt, “if you wanted to go muddin’ today.”

Arthur’s fingers closed round the spoon, but froze before they could fully accept it. He waited for the sounds to come together in some sensible fashion in his mind, but they remained gibberish. Slowly, he pulled the spoon from his boyfriend’s warm fingers and echoed the mysterious syllables: “Muh-don.”

A grin, sweet and bright as dawn. “Muddin’. You know, ridin’ buggies through the mud.”

 _“Oh.”_ At last, the crystallization of a solved illusion. “You’ve never sounded quite so Canadian.”

Arthur hadn’t realized how Canadian Matthew really was until he moved in last November. He’d had no idea his boyfriend knew how to install snow tires, for one thing. Or that he swore so much when his hockey team lost (startlingly adorable, to hear profanity from such a lamb). The omnipresent Tim Horton’s paraphernalia was unavoidable, not that Arthur really minded; he had a habit of sneaking a honey-glazed Timbit whenever Matthew got a variety box. There were, of course, the small peculiarities: Christmas lights lingering year-round on the eaves, duct tape in place of any actual repair work, milk inexplicably sold in plastic bags alongside cartons. Arthur was the last of their friend group to immigrate, but he liked to think he was the most fond of this strange and lovely place—biased, naturally, by his fondness for a strange and lovely young man.

But this had yet to be encountered. “I didn’t realize you owned a—buggy,” Arthur said, stirring his yogurt even though this wasn’t the ghastly stuff with the fruit in the bottom.

Matthew smiled, twirling one of his longer curls round a finger. “I don’t really, it’s Dad’s. But he hardly ever uses it anymore. And it’s supposed to be nice out this afternoon.”

“Nice out?” Arthur echoed, dubious. It was the middle of February; yesterday they’d snuggled on the sofa three hours straight because the wind was howling straight through the plastic Matthew had taped to the insides of the windows. Their tiny apartment was terrible to heat, so it was a good thing Matthew radiated warmth.

“Plus eight, it said online,” Matthew replied.

“How balmy.” Arthur stepped beside him to rinse his cup out in the sink. Their hips touched, Arthur’s faded skinny jeans against Matthew’s flannel pants. No shortage of those. “I’ve never ridden anything but a bicycle. And a car, but I doubt that’s comparable.”

“Not so much,” Matthew admitted, curling a finger into one of Arthur’s belt loops. “But that’s okay. I’ll do the driving. You just have to hold on and enjoy yourself.”

Arthur glanced at him. Twenty-seven wasn’t a world away from twenty-two, but he always felt a mixture of glee and uncertainty when Matthew’s youth shone through. He allowed half a smile: “Is it fun, then?”

Matthew grinned again, like he’d been waiting his whole life to be asked. “It’s lots of fun. Dad used to tie a rope to a crazy carpet and haul me around in the snow. I never stayed on more than a minute, I don’t think—I almost broke my neck! And once when I was driving the little buggy I had as a kid, I turned it too sharp over a rock in this little rut in the ground and the next thing I knew I was stuck under it! I had bruises all over my thigh for weeks.”

Arthur stared. “. . . You know I’m not opposed to bruised thighs, but I’d rather they didn’t come from an all-terrain vehicle.”

Matthew chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m a much better driver now. We won’t crash, I promise. We can just drive slow, if you want. You get less muddy that way.”

Arthur didn’t suspect there would be any mud to speak of, plus eight or not; he still wasn’t used to how it could go from minus twenty overnight to plus ten in the afternoon. Surely there were hibernating bears who kept pressing the snooze button when they felt warm air creep into their caves? He glanced out the window. Only morning yet, and the sun was vibrant—and there were stray flakes dancing past the glass. Strange and lovely, as always.

“Alright,” Arthur allowed, tucking some curls behind Matthew’s ear. “I’ll put the wellbeing of my neck and thighs into your hands.”

Matthew surprised him with a tight hug, which Arthur returned with one arm round the slightly pudgy waist. His boyfriend gave the best hugs, warm and soft every time, if a bit crushing on occasion. Arthur felt Matthew’s lips brush his ear as he whispered, “You’ve ridden something other than a bike, Mr. Kirkland.”

Arthur couldn’t quite suppress the shiver he got when Matthew called him that—bringing them both back to when Arthur was the student-teacher for Matthew’s senior English class—and Matthew knew full-well the effect it had. “Cheek,” Arthur said, slipping his cool hands beneath Matthew’s hoodie. “Might as well warm me up now, since I’ll be in subzero temperatures soon enough.”

Matthew smiled against his skin and murmured into the hollow of his collarbone, “Plus eight.”

Arthur lifted himself up onto the counter so he could wrap his legs round Matthew. He did his best meteorologist: “Plus eight, feels like minus thirty.”

Matthew flashed him a rare, naughty smile. “Is that what it feels like?”

Arthur devoured those rosy lips. Vanilla and tea, maple and coffee. Cause for celebration: before he moved here, he’d never known life to be so sweet.

  


The Williams property wasn’t vast by local standards, but it was by Arthur’s. The driveway serpentined up a hill, dodging apple and peach trees. Huge house and garage for not one but two pickup trucks. ( _He has a fishing license,_ Matthew had told him the first time they came, as if that was the Canadian equivalent of a money tree—which it sort of was, he’d come to learn, at least in these parts.) A pond that produced an army of frogs in the summertime. And a handful of acres behind all this that sprawled into wooded foothills of the mountain that always seemed to block the horizon no matter where they went. (Matthew had mentioned hiking it once, but Arthur had declined. He didn’t trust his legs to carry him all the way up there, then turn around and undo their progress. When he voiced that concern, Matthew had suggested they camp for the night and walk back in the morning. Arthur had made up some nonsense about not feeling comfortable sleeping without four walls around him. The reality was he had a hard enough time dragging himself out of bed to go to work in the morning. Where would he ever find the ambition to walk down a bloody mountain?)

One of the monstrous trucks was absent, for which Arthur was grateful. It was enough of a stretch for Matthew’s father to accept him dating another man; it would be at least another year before he got over the fact that they met as teacher and student. Not that they’d done anything before Matthew graduated. Arthur hadn’t fancied getting arrested right before he got his degree.

“He likes you, really,” Matthew said, catching Arthur’s expression.

“Sticks and stones, pet,” Arthur said. Matthew cared very much if people liked and approved of him, and this concern extended to his friends and partner. Arthur was past caring at this point; he’d secured enough relationships that adding more would just be a chore, so everyone else was just background noise at best and obstacles at worst.

They left their car and ventured into the garage. Arthur had never actually been in here to appreciate the full size of it, and all the miscellaneous clutter stored in the back. He was surprised to see not only a quad bike but a motorcycle as well.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been a Hell’s Angel this whole time,” Arthur said, mostly joking.

Matthew laughed. “No, no, that’s a dirt bike. Dad used to ride it, but it’s too hard on his joints these days.”

“Ah. You’ve better suspension than your master,” he said, addressing the bike to make Matthew smile. The buggy waited beside it, like a cow next to a pony. “And here we have the beast. Does it have heated seats?”

“Afraid not.” Matthew was bundled far more than Arthur, despite the former being built for this sort of environment. Matthew was wearing two layers of pants, steel-toe boots, and three layers on top: shirt, hoodie, parka. Arthur had declined the offer of double pants, but had borrowed some of his boyfriend’s clothes since he didn’t own an abundance of things intended to get filthy. As such, he was done up in an old camouflage coat of Matthew’s—again, no shortage of those—and a pair of his sweatpants which said DRAMA QUEEN across the ass in hot pink. ( _They’re really old,_ he’d said in self-defense. _I only wear them around the house. I can get you different ones?_ But Arthur told him not to bother. If he didn’t want attention drawn to his ass, he wouldn’t wear skinny jeans.) He also had on Matthew’s rubber boots, which were too big even after a pair of fuzzy socks were donned for insulation.

“I feel like a very rustic marshmallow,” Arthur remarked. He had no gloves, because the sleeves effectively swallowed his hands. “This must have been too big for you, as well, surely.”

Matthew turned to face him, a smile dimpling his cheeks and a helmet in each hand. “I like my clothes to be loose.” He offered the black helmet, keeping the blue for himself. “Here, this is Dad’s but I don’t think your head is bigger than his.”

“I hope that’s not implying anything.” Arthur took the helmet and, after a bit of a struggle, tugged it down onto his head. The buckle beneath his chin gave him an inexplicable amount of trouble; Matthew gently snapped it together on the first try. “Cheers. This thing must be squeezing my brain.”

“That must be it,” Matthew agreed good-naturedly. He straddled the buggy, abruptly adult and unfamiliar with his helmet on. A surprising amount of masculinity was tied into the simple action of spreading one’s legs on either side of a seat and holding one’s arms up to grasp handlebars. Arthur lingered a moment, to appreciate his beautiful boy in such a tough guy pose.

“All aboard,” Matthew said, lifting a hand to pull an invisible whistle. “Choo-choo!”

Smiling faintly to himself, Arthur climbed up and swung his leg over the seat. He slipped his arms around Matthew’s waist, amused by how greaser-and-girlfriend the image was. He’d never really intended to be the person holding on to someone else, but he wasn’t upset that things had turned out this way. Besides, it was him leading the way more often than not, and he knew Matthew preferred that.

( _He’s not going to ask which of us is the woman, is he?_ Arthur had wondered aloud as they dressed for their first dinner with Matthew’s father. _Um, I don’t think so,_ Matthew had replied. And he hadn’t, as it turned out, which Arthur was mostly grateful for. It would have turned into a discussion including but not limited to details of their sex life, and he suspected that would make the Williams father and son quite uncomfortable.)

The engine growled to life and with a little jolt they were off, rumbling across the driveway and up the field. The ground was more uneven here, but Matthew didn’t slow for it, so they bumped and bounced along over sparse patches of snow. They were going fast enough that Arthur considered pulling down the plastic visor to block his face from the wind, but after a few moments the tears in his eyes went away and he saw: the sunlight made even brighter by surrounding overcast days, the bleached wheat-brown of little grass hillocks, the mountain in the distance mottled with dark pines and shiny silver birches all reaching their branching hands up toward the blue, blue, blue of the sky above.

“Slower?” Matthew called.

“Faster,” Arthur urged, and accidentally knocked the front of his helmet into the back of Matthew’s. Matthew gave a high, wild laugh and they roared ahead. Matthew lifted himself off the seat, so Arthur followed suit, still holding tight to him. “Here comes the mud!” Matthew cried, and suddenly they were plunging down into a trench. They were in and out in seconds, but flecks of mud flew up around them, some of them even arcing over their heads. _Bloody hell,_ Arthur thought, looking down at himself—and then they were driving into another dip in the earth full of mucky water and he was lucky not to be blinded. Again and again mud and melted snow splashed up at them until they were both giggling and dripping like messy kids.

Matthew finally slowed down when they passed the tree line, and the buggy heaved itself over gashes in the earth and crushed strewn sticks and mowed over low thickets. Arthur kept scanning the wood for any sign of movement that might indicate a rabbit or deer, which he admitted was a childish and dubious effort since any self-respecting fauna would have cleared out by now. Still, when he saw a pair of birds—sparrows, perhaps, or just chickadees—chase each other across the sky, a smile curled. Quite impossible, not to be taken by this place.

They were crawling now, both of them having plopped back onto the seat. Arthur sat up straight, arms falling from Matthew’s sides. That cluster of trees, the one that looked like two trunks stuck together at the base, and—there, ahead. Yes, he recognized this. This was their oak tree.

Matthew turned the key, and Arthur’s ears rang with the sudden silence. His boyfriend patiently waited while Arthur climbed off first—and grabbed his arm when his numb legs nearly gave out beneath him.

“Quite the workout, eh?” Arthur panted, tugging his helmet off. “You don’t realize when you’re sat on the thing.”

Matthew removed his own helmet and set them both on the seat. “My arms are kinda tingly,” he agreed. He glanced at their oak tree, a sheepish smile quirking his lips. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but you probably knew where we were going.”

“No, I wasn’t even thinking of it,” Arthur admitted. “Your surprise is a success.”

Matthew’s smile widened. “It’s after our anniversary and before Valentine’s Day, but I thought it might be nice to come here. And I figured we should, before more snow comes.”

 _More?_ Rueful, Arthur knocked his knuckles against the trunk of their tree. “Shall we sit?” he asked. “Our arses are the only thing without dirt on them, now.”

Matthew nodded, and they both lowered themselves to the ground among the roots of the oak. They’d walked here the first time Arthur visited, and he sighed softly at the memory of that gorgeous summer day, so warm it seemed winter would never return. He twined his fingers with Matthew, who smiled and ducked so Arthur could kiss his forehead. Matthew shifted a little and rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, just as he’d done in the summer. Then, he’d said, _I keep waiting for you to leave. For someone more exciting._ Arthur had laughed at the absurdity of it. _I’ve had enough exciting, thank you. I’ve found what I want with you. If I wanted something else, I’d not be under this tree._

Matthew must’ve been reminiscing as well, because he murmured, “I’m glad you didn’t leave.”

Arthur nuzzled into his curls, which were still slightly squished from the helmet. It was much easier to show love through touches and deeds, but he knew how much Matthew valued the words, so he said, “It’s been my best decision, love.”

Matthew tipped his head back so they could kiss. Arthur parted his lips, an invitation, but Matthew was already pulling back to whisper: “You’re my favorite.”

“Even covered in mud?” Arthur teased, his free hand brushing a speck of the stuff from Matthew’s cheek.

“Especially covered in mud,” Matthew replied, then winced. “Sorry, that sounded better in my head . . .”

Arthur gave the tip of his boyfriend’s nose an amused tap. “Well, then, we’ll have to make a habit of mudding.”

Matthew burst into giggles. “Nobody’s ever called it _mudding_.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Arthur told him, but in truth he was barely listening to himself; instead, he was seeing Matthew, how strange his words were and how lovely the rest of him was, from the rose gold curls on his head to the clunky boots on his feet. Perhaps he was softening in his old age, but all it took these days to make Arthur smile was to see happiness sparkling in those violet eyes.

“I love you,” Matthew said, eyes twinkling.

“I love you, too.” Arthur pressed his smile against Matthew’s lips.

Above them, a lone ant revived by the warmth followed a peculiar path: two bridged diagonals, a tiny crossroads, and a pair of valleyed mountains. The humans, however, paid it no mind. They knew by heart what it said.

A + M

  
  


_The End._


End file.
